


But He Refused

by georgenapity (cleopatraslibrary)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Animal death (see tags), Birth, Blood and Gore, Dark, Dream Smp, Gen, Implied Rape/Non-con, Minor Character Death, Murder, Real Life, Slight Suicidal Ideation, Starvation, Technoblade Never Dies and it shows, The Nether (Minecraft)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleopatraslibrary/pseuds/georgenapity
Summary: The tragic upbringing of the Blood God.-Or, five times Technoblade saved himself from death, and one time someone else stepped in.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 211





	But He Refused

**Author's Note:**

> *Animal death: there is a graphic depiction of Techno killing a hoglin. Please be warned if that may squick or trigger you.
> 
> Hullo! I had this idea for a dark Techno fic about a month ago and have been working on it since then, perfecting it to the best of my ability. I really love how it turned out, so I hope you enjoy! Please be mindful of the tags, as it can be graphic and potentially disturbing to some readers.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! :]

With her bloody fingernails clenched in the grooves of the carved blackstone, the young woman screamed. All around her, it was echoed by her fellow captives, trapped in their own cells, their cries full of pain and pleas desperate for help. Her tears were cool against her heated cheeks as she sobbed, but she didn’t beg; her time was almost through and any gods that may have been willing to head her call had abandoned her long ago in this bottomless bastion. 

All she had left to do was _push_.

After nine months in this horrible place, the heat of the blackstone usually didn’t affect her already burn-damaged skin, but that, combined with the pain of the contractions seizing her lower body, reigned hell on her, making everything just feel _worse_. She was tempted to douse herself in her water, but she knew it’d simply evaporate in seconds. It would be a waste. She wanted to save it. She _needed_ to save it.

Another scream tore from the back of her throat as her child _moved_ inside of her. Desperately, she pushed, panting breathlessly from the exertion and pain. Time was far removed in the Nether, needless since the sun and moon weren’t in this realm, but in times like this, she wished she could differentiate the moments, the minutes and hours and days. She’d be able to figure out how much longer she’d have to suffer.

(She only knew she’d been trapped here nine months because she hadn’t been pregnant when she came through the Portal.)

She pushed again, and again, and again. She focused and barely felt the pain as her nails scraped and broke against the stone floor, holding onto it with her bare fingertips and letting them blister as her child’s cries were suddenly audible, quiet at first, but then loud, wailing. 

She cried, too. She forced herself to sit up, shaking and lightheaded as she reached for the child. 

She picked them up, _him_ , she picked _him_ up, and then– 

She stared silently at him. Stared at his snout, stared at his pointed, pig-like ears, stared at his blood-covered, pinkish skin. Her face crumbled as she pulled him against her chest, cradling him like the precious thing he was, careful of the umbilical cord still connecting them. 

His tears leaked onto her skin and he felt hot against her, but it was different from the oppressive heat of the stone, the air, the bastion, the _Nether_. He was her son, and his presence was comforting. He was just beginning to calm down, his cries turning to soft sniffles as he pressed his face into her skin. She reached for one of her spare bottles and, deftly, lifted it above his head and poured the water over him, rinsing away the grime to the best of her ability.

She held him, and smiled.

Then she heard it.

The brutes above were snorting angrily and their hoovesteps were echoing down the chambers of the dungeons, growing louder and louder. 

She looked down at her baby and, with trembling fingers, opened his mouth.

He had no golden fangs, like the other piglins.

She inhaled and listened as they came closer and closer. _They were going to kill him_ , she thought, going still in panic. What could she do? How could she save him? Would they recognize him as their own?

She pressed her hand against his chest and felt his heart beat against her fingertips. She’d been close enough to the brutes to know they didn’t have heartbeats, didn’t have _hearts_ , or the sentience for compassion. As soon as they could hear his heart putter, they’d cut him up.

It hit her, in that moment. She lifted her hand up and pressed it against her neck, feeling the thin, delicate gold necklace draped in between her collarbones. Without hesitation, she pulled it over her head and looked at the red heart charm dangling in the middle, swallowing hard as she put it over her baby’s head, knotting it tightly so it wouldn’t accidentally fall off. 

Clutching him to her chest, she pushed herself to her knees and crawled to the side, grabbing the torn clothes she had been sitting on. She tried to fluff it up, but they were in tatters; she could only hope his humanoid skin was thicker than her own.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, long and desperate and grieving, before gently laying him down. 

She stared at him, his small, soft, blood and water soaked body on top of the dirty clothes, surrounded by rough blackstone, and mourned. She swiped her finger across his forehead and couldn’t stop the sob as he reached out towards her hand. 

She knew she was greeting Lady Death today, but she hadn’t been prepared. She couldn’t have truly prepared for this moment, she realised suddenly. Not when she hadn’t been able to touch her baby, see him, feel him beside her. She let him grasp her finger, and pretended for a second Lady Death wasn’t entwined with her soul, counting down to her demise. 

She forced herself to back away, pulling away from him, just as her cell door opened. The brutes roughly grabbed her, axes raised and poised to attack. 

She looked at her baby, watched as another piglin stepped into the cell without its weapon raised, and picked him up. It stared at him, and he stared back.

She suddenly choked when one of the brutes swung its axe into her stomach, destroying the umbilical cord still tethering them together and then some. She gasped and tried not to scream, and didn’t see the piglin take her baby out of the cell as the same brute pulled the axe out of her gut and aimed for her skull.

–

There was something the child learned quickly of, in the biting grips on his wrists compared to the gentle touch at the base of his throat:

The piglins didn’t care about him, not like they did one another; they cared about the gold wrapped around his neck, tightly bound by someone forgotten. The older he got, the bigger he grew, the more torturous they became. The indifference he'd been shown when he was a piglet swiftly turned into scathing snarls, berating him at every turn now that he’s aged. His golden teeth haven’t come in, and, at this point, he was afraid they never would.

He tested the theory that they only cared for his gold, one day, when he was alone with a combatant. He looked up at them, their left eye caved in and scarred, their black uniform pressed and gold polished, their hand on the hilt of their axe the entire time they strolled down the corridor. He thought, _Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,_ as he stepped back and covered the chain around his neck with both hands.

The change was instantaneous. 

The combatant’s eyes sharpened, staring directly at him as he snorted, and the young piglet barely had enough time to scramble backwards as the combatant swung, the blade only inches from his snout. He’d fallen back onto the rough, hot blackstone, and bared his neck, hoping submission would work. He knew without a doubt, once the combatant’s eyes glazed over at the sight of the gold, submission didn’t matter; gold did. 

But even then, it wasn’t enough. 

The combatant didn’t stop, and wrapped their hand around the piglet’s throat, thumb on the heart charm. They picked him bodily off the ground and the piglet squealed, reaching up and struggling to tug the combatant’s grip off of him. He inhaled sharply, but his airway wasn't impeded, or getting crushed; he was merely being held tight under the combatant's hand. He didn't know their plan for him, but he didn't care to find out.

It was a futile battle, one he still tried to fruitlessly fight. He kicked and screamed and scratched, but the combatant simply tightened their hold as they carried him from the edges of the bastion further, farther inside.

None of the other piglins looked his way, none even sparing him a glance. They never cared for him, and he supposed he should have realised quicker. It didn't stop him from wailing for their help, however.

The corridors slimmed. Fewer and fewer piglins passed them by. Lava glistened between the cracks of the walls, dripping ominously. Held in unforgiving hands, the combatant carried him deep down into the bastion, where he could hear the begging and screaming of others in unintelligible, incomprehensible shouts. 

He went limp in the combatant's hand, barely holding on as he took in his surroundings. Cell block after cell block lined the walls with living creatures in them, disheveled, dirty and bloody.

His eyes widened as he finally recognised where he was being taken and he started to fight again, battering uselessly against the combatant as he shrieked. All around him, it echoed, his voice reverberating across the stone, and in the captives held against their will. The combatant snarled at him and stopped at the entrance of an empty cell.

They threw open the door and, carelessly, threw him inside. He cried out as the jagged blackstone scraped against his skin, and only registered the _clang!_ of the iron door shutting until it was too late.

–

Not much time had passed before he began to starve.

The cell was small, with a small mound of blackstone that he supposed was a bed, and two small windows on opposite walls. One was used for piglin trading inside the bastion; the other faced outwards, towards the crimson forest. The window facing outwards was too thin to climb through and the one inside the bastion could be opened, but only by a piglin on the other side. There was no way to break through the steel bars and, even if he could, it’d be certain death.

But with nothing to eat, he was going to die anyway.

From the days he’d spent trapped, he noticed how the captives gained food and drink.

It was a neat trick, one that only worked in the piglins favour. All of the captives had gold on them, in various quantities. If they wanted to eat, they had to trade what they could, in exchange for water bottles and cooked hog. As soon as they ran out of gold, which everyone inevitably did, the combatants would slaughter them. 

With as little gold as he had, the piglet wouldn’t be able to bring the bottle to his lips before the combatant’s axe cut his head off.

The cell block was quiet, only hiccoughing cries and hoarse yelling heard at random intervals breaking the fragile silence. Many captives must be asleep, he thought. Usually when one started to yell, others would shout back, until it simply became incoherent shrieking. 

His stomach tightened as pangs of hunger gnawed at his consciousness. He groaned, quiet and breathless as he doubled over, holding onto his belly, as if it would help the claws gripping his insides. 

He lifted his head up, ignoring the heaviness in his head and stared out into the forest.

Or. He _tried_ to.

Blocking his line of sight, was a hoglet.

It was smaller than the usual wandering hoglets, probably the runt of its litter. He imagined the roast hog the piglins would give him, with no trades or strings attached, and stared at the small creature as it continued to stand there. His mouth began to water. Without taking his eyes off of it, he stood up and inched closer to the window.

It didn’t move; if anything, it seemed to be actively taunting him by not moving. He glanced around the cell, looking for any type of weapon, before he let out a mirthless little giggle. He knew better than that. 

He’d just have to work with his bare hands. 

Silent and slow, he carefully placed his steps on the blackstone, closer and closer. The hoglet was snorting quietly. He didn’t let himself think as, quick as an arrow, he shot his arm out of the window and grabbed the hoof of the hoglet, yanking it towards him through the window.

It _squealed_ , high pitched and terrified, as he forced it through the small window. He grabbed onto another leg and, with all of his might, held it over his head and slammed it into the blackstone. 

The moment stilled as he realised what he did. He stared at it with wide eyes and a clogged throat. His mouth was still watering.

The hoglet shook, blood pooling beneath it. One, tiny whine emitted from its snout, before it stopped moving completely. 

All around him, the other captives were woken up by its shrill cry for help. The screaming resumed, their pleas hurting his ears.

He knelt down. With trembling fingers, he touched its crushed skull. Overwhelmed and so hungry, he dipped his head and bit into its shoulder, biting through its skin and breathing out wetly as its blood dripped down from his mouthful, onto his chin. He chewed and chewed, and it hurt to swallow, but he was desperate for more. 

Fat, hot tears pooled in his eyes and he took another bite. Bitter remorse and horrible guilt tightened in his chest as he ate, and he didn’t know if it felt worse that he didn’t regret killing the baby hoglin, or the pain in his stomach if he hadn’t. 

–

The first hoglet lasted him two days. The second lasted him four.

By the time he was able to grab his seventh, he figured out how to make it last, _at least_ , a week.

The unexpected consequence of killing the hoglets left him with their bones, and thick, leather hides.

Some of the bones were fragile and small, cracking beneath the tiniest bit of pressure beneath his fingertips. Others were sturdy. Hard. Sharp. All of the leather was, while slickened with blood, rough and hefty.

And that’s when he began to plan. 

When the cells quieted, and the combatants left the dungeons, he got up. With the toughest bone he had collected, he went up to the window facing the crimson forest and began to pick at the blackstone.

At first, it was gruelling. His fingers split open from holding on so tightly to the bone and his body shook with nerves that he may be caught. He readjusted his grip and continued to chip away, even the smallest pebbles breaking from the window feeling like the most prideful achievements.

When the first bone crumbled, he used another. And when that one turned to dust, he found a thicker one in his pile. He used them and forged his window, his hands aching and shaking as he worked, even the leather wearing thin and useless between his grip and the bone. He found the ribs of the hoglins to be the best for mining, as well as their fangs. 

He didn’t know how long he worked for. From endless cycles of blaring screeches turning into hushed cries and back, he worked tediously and recklessly. His nails broke, his skin peeled back and bled down to the nerve. Yet weary, and exhausted, and in pain, he continued. He persevered. 

And with countless days, he finally found the window was big enough to climb through.

He killed another hoglin, bigger than the rest he’d slaughtered before, distanced from its squeals as he stepped on its skull. Using one of the finer bones he’d chewed on to sharpen, he sliced the hoglin open and carefully cut it apart and rolled up the meat into easy to grab and eat slices. With the leather, he tore thin pieces from the thick layers and used his sharpest bone to cut a hole on the biggest piece he had. He stuck his head through it and used the strips to strap it on securely. With the rest, he made a bag to carry his food – and whittled bones – and a pair of thick gloves that he put on. 

He looked back inside the bastion, through the iron bars. It was eerily silent, the captives still in their cells. He turned back around and stared out. He steeled himself, pushing back his shoulders, and breathed in quietly. He pulled the necklace out from beneath the leather and let the heart lay against the armour. He exhaled. With quiet determination, he hoisted himself through the ledge of the window and out into the open.

The air was fresh, the stifling bite of sulfur and ash trapped within the confines of the bastion. Heat licked at the edge of his skin, blisteringly hot, but it felt better than the dull burn of the blackstone and thick air of the dungeons. The soil, too, had never felt softer in his grasp than it did right then between his leather covered fingers. He stared down at the red soil before looking up, into the wide, boundless cavern, the purple and red trees towering high above him, all encompassing. Powerful, freeing, and diminishing, all at once. 

He swallowed, nervous and excited, and forced himself up, forced himself to begin his trek through the forest. 

Piglins patrolled the areas with a glazed derisiveness, paying him no mind as soon as they caught sight of his golden necklace. He supposed they were no combatant, only meant to guard the gold of the forest. They were no brute.

They did kill the hoglins, however. Their thick skins bounced off their arrows, but the hoglins were no real match against the piglins’ wielded swords.

It didn't matter to him. It only kept them – _both_ of them – distracted from his presence. 

The forest thicket was rough and harsh, and he could feel the bubbling heat of the lava around him. It was overwhelming, and tiring, and he didn't know where he was going as he pushed through the sticky, entangling vines.

Then, a break in the forest. 

His eyes widened and unconsciously, his mouth parted, baring his teeth. This was it, this could be it–!

He ran forward, desperate to escape from the looming bastion and its forest, ducking through the trees and vines into– 

An endless abyss of lava laid before him, ripe for his demise.

He went airborne. With a screech and thimble fingers, he desperately reached for the vines and caught himself, yelping as his arm yanked hard against his own weight. Shaking and panicked, he pulled himself up and back over the ledge of the forest, chest heaving and filled with adrenaline. 

He laid down in the dirt and sniffled, his snout clogged with emotion. 

He didn’t know how long he rested before he got up and began a quiet investigation of the edges of the forest. The entirety of the border was an endless lava pool, with no end in sight across its bubbling, steaming surface. He walked until it wrapped around to the bastion and realized, with a quiet dread, the bastion had been built directly above the lava pool. He ducked behind trees as he continued along its perimeters, but it was no use, he discovered; the forest was truly a single platform. 

There was no way to escape from his cell without killing himself. But, as he crawled back into the bastion window, perhaps his fate would have been better suited as flesh and bone in the lava below him.

–

With time, he realised that greeting Lady Death wasn’t the only way he could escape, though She had almost wrapped him up into Her ensnaring web. 

Though he was limited in what he could do when he left the bastion, he began to gather materials from the forest. He used bone to saw through branches and collected as many of the sticky vines that they would allow. (Many simply ripped upon breaking, but with a careful hand, he learned the most effective way to gather the weaving plant.) He found himself actively engaging the hoglins in battles and learned how to dodge and weave their attacks, and how to use their tusks against them. 

When he was back in his cell, he experimented with his resources. He tied the vines together in big, hooping ropes and slept on it, almost comfortable on the blackstone. He broke down the wood and connected it to his bones, making tools similar to the ones the combatants had. He found sharpening the bones was much more efficient against the stone and wood than just using his own teeth and crafted his first sword, a comfortable wooden hilt tied to the deadly bone point with a sticky vine. 

He also created a pickaxe out of the lavender logs. He found the bone too fragile to truly be able to mine anything reliably, but the wooden one worked well. He expanded his window, so he was able to climb out more easily and, as he chipped away at it, had an idea.

He found when the other captives were more unruly, the less piglin patrolled the forest. So one day, during the height of the screaming, he left his cell and searched the floors of the forest, carefully avoiding any piglins he saw. 

Then he spotted it.

Entrenched in thicket was a patch of gold ore.

He looked around and, not seeing anyone, quickly made work of his pickaxe, putting his weight into his thrusts. Pieces of gold broke away in nuggets and he worked as fast as he could, before swiping them and running back to the bastion, evading to the best of his ability. 

And that’s what he did everytime the screaming began. He slipped out of the bastion, found a patch of gold ore, mined as much as he could, before running back to his cell before he was caught in the woods or discovered missing. 

He did this until he gathered enough gold to combine it together. 

Gold was malleable, almost soft in its glory. It was easy to bend and shape. It was especially easy to shape once he gathered it all together and went next to a lava fall, heating it until it melted into one, large mound of glittering metal. 

For risk of getting caught, or of it being too loud in his cell, he dug into the ground next to the lava fall and made a small hidey hole, one easily hid beneath a rock of netherrack. 

Then, using the tools he'd forged, he began to work, using a wooden hammer to bang away at the gold, pressing it against his body and sizing it, shaping it to fit him. 

It was clunky and uncomfortable and difficult, but it was a necessary evil he had to overcome in order to prevail. So he continued to work, moulding it against him and making sheets of bright, shiny golden armour. 

He kept it hidden in the depths when he ran back to the bastion, and came back whenever he felt he had a chance to, working on ways of how to improve it. The leather armour he originally made would act as padding, wrapped around his body as an extra layer of support.

He thought of making weapons with the remaining gold he had, but with how delicate it seemed to be, he didn’t think it was worth it. Together and thick, gold seemed sturdy, but turning it into a pickaxe or a sword… he didn’t think it would be worth it. 

And, he decided, if it all went downhill, maybe he could use his leftover gold to help bargain himself out of the dungeon. Then he could truly escape with his soul left intact.

Three cycles of screaming and silence before he decided it was time.

He left the bastion and armoured up in his hidey hole. The helmet felt big on his head, while the chestplate felt tight with the thick leather beneath it, but he knew they were perfect. He stalled long enough. He used the sticky vine to tighten the armour over his legs and sides, before, gently, he tucked the heart charm necklace beneath the leather. 

He breathed out and straightened his shoulders before climbing out of the hidey hole. He didn’t look behind him as he marched back to the bastion.

He slid inside his window and nothing was out of sorts. No combatants stood near his window, there were no unusual pleas. Just the normal pleading and crying of the captives. It simply was. 

He flipped his vine comforter over, off of the ground, revealing the same bone sword he crafted not so long ago, along with a wooden shield with a sticky vine strap and a pickaxe. He holstered the shield, securing it to his wrist and elbow, before picking up the sword and pickaxe. 

He held the sword in his shield hand as he stepped up to the iron bars and mined the blackstone around it, watching the rock crumble and turn to dust on the floor. Once a hole big enough for him to climb through was made, he stepped out, dropping the pickaxe inside the cell. He wouldn't need it again. 

None of the combatants noticed him at first. Maybe it was the gold, maybe it was his stature, maybe they just weren't clever. Whichever way, it wasn't until he ran up to one of the brutal combatants, jumping up and slicing into one of their necks, severing their head off, that they let out a war cry and charged at him, with their golden axes raised and their teeth out. 

He ducked and weaved between them, timing his slices as he confused them with his quick, sudden movements. He blocked their heavy hits with his shield and looped around them, leaving a trail of sticky vine in his path, entangling a couple of them, and annoying them all. 

His surroundings disappeared as he zoned in on his opponents. Six combatants rushed him, with various degrees of mobility. Three on the left stood farther away, entangled in the sticky vine. Two were close in front of him, their axes just beginning to lift, and one was right next his right ear. He stuttered his step and spun, jamming the sword into the right one's eyes, and snarled. _This is for what you've done to me._ He pulled out the sword with a wet _squelch!_ , ducking as the two swung over him, before cleanly slicing off one of the combatant's battle hands. The axe clattered onto the blackstone in a gushy, bloody mess as the combatant squealed, and he used their body to deflect a blow, leading the other's axe into their head, before turning around and slitting their throat. Their bodies fell limply and broken against the floor. _This is for imprisoning me._

He stepped forward, towards the ensnared combatants. _This… This is for not caring about me._ Yelling and running forward recklessly, he shoved the sword down the back of a combatant as another swung down hard against his shield, the wood cracking beneath the pressure. He slid the bone out and jammed it through the chin of the next combatant, barely hesitating before pulling the sword out and stabbing the last one in the chest, twisting the blade as he watched the life drain from its already dead eyes.

He scanned the room, looking for more combatants, but none came. Blood pounded in his ears and it was hard to catch his breath as he slowly reacquainted himself with where he was. All around him were the rapidly decaying bodies of the combatants, blood and guts spilt across the floor in the hallway of the dungeon. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him as he stumbled, falling to his knees. He did it. _I did it._

Trembling, he put his head in his hands and cried.

Unknowingly, a single brute clambered back up behind him. With his head bowed and tears dizzying his sight, he wouldn't have been able to see the attack coming anyway. His back was exposed; there was nothing he could do.

The captives screamed with glee and he lifted his head, just in time to see a man with wings and shining purple armour swoop down from the heavens and slice the head off of the incoming brute. 

_

– – 

– – – 

– – – – 

– – – – – 

– – – – 

– – –

– – 

–

Recovering bastions was a tricky business, one he did unncessarily.

Many were left in ruins, overflowing with lava and useless artifacts that Phil could just create himself. Occasionally, he’d stumble across a hidden gem, like netherite or a forged disk, but usually, they weren’t useful and any trinkets found in them were useless.

Today was not one of those days.

Phil could only be fiercely grateful he happened to take a wrong turn on his way to his fortress.

He landed lightly on his heels, making sure to avoid the bodies of the brutes laying dead around the small piglin he just saved. Their eyes were beady and lifeless, and their bodies were splattered against the blackstone, the blood and guts almost enough to put him off. He glanced at the one he just beheaded before blinking away, and shrugged it off, the elytra he wore tucking itself against his back.

He looked around the large dungeon of the bastion. Aside from treasure rooms, he had never seen anything so intricately built by piglins. It was a seemingly endlessly long cell block; there were at least one hundred separate cells, most with occupants inside of them. 

He maneuvered around the bodies, making his way to the closest cell. Inside was a young human child, with matted, greasy hair, and torn clothes. His eyes, however, were alight with’ excitement and lively in a way most of the other prisoners weren’t. He mustn't have been here long.

Phil lowered his axe, and pitched his voice low. “Hello,” he said, looking at the iron bars with a curious gaze. They were welded as if done by a master; he wondered if the piglins had truly made these, or if they had merely taken it over by their predecessors. He’d raided hundreds of bastions before and never before had they had _prisoners_ or _captives_. 

“Hello!” the boy said, his voice high pitched and relieved. “Are you here to save us?”

His heart went heavy with his words and he gave him a small smile. “I will be. How long have you been here?”

“Um, well…” The boy hesitated. “It’s hard to distinguish the days here, y’know? But I’ve slept four times.”

Subtly, Phil looked further into the room. Nowhere in sight did there seem to be a bed, or a mattress, or anything, only a slab of blackstone against the far wall. _He’s slept here four times? Ender. How long have the others been here?_

“Well, you know villages with fancy hotels?” Phil asked him. The boy nodded. “When you pay for a room, they charge you per night. You say you slept four times? Well, let’s just equate that to four nights.”

“So I’ve been here five days?” he asked and Phil’s smile broadened.

“Yeah, if that sounds about right to you.”

He seemed to consider it before nodding seriously. “That sounds about right.”

Phew. 

There was an abrupt clattering behind him and Phil quickly swiveled around, pulling up his axe. But there was no threat; it was just the piglet. They were still knelt on the ground, their head bowed over a sword. They picked it up and dropped it again. _So that’s where the noise came from at least._

He needed to talk to them, or, communicate, somehow. He turned back towards the boy.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “My name is Phil.”

“Wilbur!” Wilbur smiled at Phil. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Another pang stole through his heart. It truly wasn’t nice to meet Wilbur here, but he was thankful for the child’s boundless optimism in this decrepit place. 

“It’s nice to meet you, too. Could you do me a favour, Wilbur?”

The boy nodded, a touch eagerly.

“Step back for me, would you? I’m going to mine a hole out for you to come through.” Wilbur nodded before heading to the back of the cell, leaning against the blackstone. Phil pulled off his pick from his belt and mined through, making a hole just big enough for Wilbur to climb through. He was going to be mining a lot of holes; he didn’t want to accidentally weaken the foundation of the bastion before they could all escape.

He studied it briefly, making sure there were no jagged edges he could get caught on, before motioning him forward. Wilbur climbed out with vigour, pacing around Phil like an excited puppy. He was charmed, he’d admit.

“Alright, calm down a little,” he chided softly, hanging his pick back on his belt and pulling two shulkers out of his satchel. He placed them down and looked back at Wilbur, who was staring at the boxes with an oddly intense expression on his face. He gestured towards them and Wilbur’s eyes snapped back on Phil’s. “Do you know what these are?”

Slowly, Wilbur shook his head.

“That’s alright. They’re called ‘shulker boxes,’” he explained. “If you tap on the top, just so,” he tapped on the lids, “then it’ll twist open.” Both shulkers creaked open, revealing their contents’. One was filled to the brim with food, breads and fishes and meats all cooked to perfection, and the other was full of water buckets, empty bottles, and a cauldron. “Can you go around to the other captives and give them food and water?”

Wilbur nodded, his face lighting up. “Of course!”

Phil smiled, replying, “Thank you. Grab what you need, as well. Make sure to give out the breads and chickens first; they’re lighter on the stomach.” His face dulled as he looked back over at the piglet. “I want to check up on them,” he said quietly, jerking his head towards them.

“Okay, Phil,” Wilbur said. 

With loud, clunky footsteps so as not to startle them, Phil approached the piglet. He couldn’t get a clear look at their face, but they certainly didn’t seem to be armoured by the bastion, with tattered leather armour sticking out from beneath crudely designed golden. Not to mention the sword it was wielding; Phil had never seen a sword like the one he was using; too dull to be an ore, but clearly sharp enough to do considerable damage to any opponents. 

And really, who was Phil kidding? They slaughtered the brutes. He could only imagine what was actually done before he arrived, considering the gorey sight he’d stumbled upon. 

As he stepped closer and closer, he could see the piglet tensing their shoulders, their head low and hunched. Phil raised his hands, holding them far from his person, with his fingers splayed. In the same low tone he used with Wilbur, he said, “Hello. I’m Phil. Can you understand me?”

Slowly, they lifted their head and Phil’s breath caught in his throat. 

The piglet clearly had the snout of a piglin, as well as the ears, the face shape, the pale pink skin; the eyes, however. Their eyes were distinctly human, dark and heavy lidded, wet with tears and tragedy. Not to mention the scars littering their face and body, some faded, but some new, slick with blood.

They blinked and snorted softly. Phil suppressed a sigh. He should have known they wouldn’t know any human languages, but it certainly would have helped.

He looked around. At his feet were the brutes’ bodies. He didn’t really want to make any grand gestures knee deep in piglin gut, but… 

Phil knelt down, looking intently at the piglet. He reached out a hand with his palm upwards and gently, softly, smiled at the piglet, making sure not to bare his teeth. 

The piglet’s head tilted, studying Phil. The necklace wrapped around their neck shifted with the movement, the heart charm flipping. 

Phil glanced at it before double-taking, focusing on the heart. Engraved in a neat, cursive font, was _‘Techno_.’ He looked back up at the piglet, at _Techno_ , and his smile widened hopefully. 

Techno blinked, before carefully laying their own, tiny, bloody hand over Phil’s. 

(He swore on Ender, then, that he would protect the piglet, for as long as the piglet would allow him to.)

Phil nodded towards the other cells, retracting his hand and getting back up. “Come on,” he said, whetting Techno’s palate to his foreign tongue, “let’s go help Wilbur.” Techno mirrored his movements, picking up his sword and sheathing it in a small satchel they made. Phil nodded encouragingly, before guiding them away from the bodies.

(For years to come, Phil would abide by that promise.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading so much! If you enjoyed, please kudo or comment, they make my day ;; If you're interested, my twitter is [ @georgenapity](https://twitter.com/georgenapity)!
> 
> Much love :] <3


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